The World Will Change Again
by peregrinepandora
Summary: McGonagall remembers her children. Short, one-shot vignette.


The World Will Change Again

~*~

"Another fail!"

She looked sheepishly at the quill to her left, wildly scratching markings on papers.  "Who is it this time?"

"Longbottom," the quill sighed shrilly.

McGonagall chuckled in spite of herself.  "He'll come together eventually."

She stood with some effort, pushing up from the desk's surface, and moved toward her bookshelf.

Books of every shape and size filled almost an entire wall.  Her hand rested on a brown album with slightly peeling gold lettering, the second of a nearly identical pair.  

_Gryffindors: 1975-2000_

She took a deep breath and pulled the book off her shelf, and in the same motion flipped open the thick leather cover.  

The first page held a large picture of ten young witches and wizards.  The Gryffindors of the class of 1975.  Two faces stuck out immediately: Frank and Alice Longbottom.  Broken by Voldemort.  Two of the six in that class.

She turned the page—1976 and 1977 hadn't fared much better.  Bony old hands, shaking, pulled at another page with some trepidation.

1978.

Ten Gryffindors, all of them just seventeen, on the day of their graduation.

They had all been arranged in a lopsided half circle: The Marauders, as McGonagall would come to know them, were whispering conspiratorially in a huddle, and Lily and two other girls laughed and rolled their eyes; the other three students in their own huddle on the other side of a small table.  All of them, one of the most tightly knit classes McGonagall could remember, seemed to be slaving over a game of wizard's chess.

As soon as the page was completely turned, however, the ten immediately moved into two straight lines and smiled statically at her, working to straighten their robes, hair (save James of course, whose best efforts often resulted in even messier hair), and backs.

McGonagall watched all this transpire in the photograph with a sad smile.  The world had ended for all of her students just a few short years later.  

The three had been the first to fall to Voldemort.  Best of friends at Hogwarts, they had gone together to work in the Ministry, all killed by one curse.

Lily's girlfriends had followed; they had been captured by Death Eaters and driven mad.  One died, one remained in St. Mungo's.

Next had come Peter.  The shy, dimwitted, cowardly boy had sold his soul, and sold out his friends.

His cowardice, or perhaps thirst for power, had been James and Lily's downfall.  They were killed by Voldemort himself.

Their deaths were blamed on Sirius, who became Voldemort's next victim.  Sirius spent 12 guiltless years in Azkaban before becoming the first to ever break out of the prison.  He'd been killed just last summer, by his own blood.

All that remained, aside from Peter, was Lupin.  Though smart, loyal, and courageous, he was not the one McGonagall would have thought would survive.  Already weak from lycanthropy, it didn't seem he could possibly out-survive the seemingly indestructible James and Sirius.

But Remus had survived.  Only he and the traitor were left now of the Gryffindors of Hogwarts' Class of 1978.

Peter looked up at McGonagall with fear showing slightly in his eyes, but Sirius whacked him upside the head and he seemed to snap out of it.  Remus seemed to admonish Sirius for the whack, but only halfheartedly.  Despite his great morals, McGonagall remembered clearly, Lupin had had little success in restraining neither Sirius nor James, who was now sneaking a stealthy kiss from Lily.

As McGonagall slowly closed the book, 1978's Gryffindors quickly abandoned their linear formation and resumed their chess game.  She put her cool hands to her warm, wet face.  Ten students, ten _children._

_Her _children.

Broken, tortured, murdered, abandoned.  Oblivious in a photograph, they all smiled, joked, played.  Existed.  

A photograph.  

A moment in time.

1998.

Eight Gryffindors, all of them just sixteen, a little more than a year from their graduation.

Perhaps she had become more lax, less intimidating, in twenty years; or maybe this class was just bolder.  They had not bothered to move from their chosen positions when she turned the page, and only Neville and Hermione seemed to put any effort into preening.

Parvati and Lavender were bent over what McGonagall assumed was a star chart.  Dean and Seamus were "transfiguring" various items, with seeming little success as assumed from the smoke and sparks that flew up from where they were sitting.

Neville sat by himself, watching a large plant with interest while conversing with his toad.  

"Oh, Neville," McGonagall whispered.  "Poor child."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, dubbed The Dream Team (with vindictive sarcasm, by Professor Snape), sat around a big book, Hermione occasionally pointing out a thing or two of significance.

Eight students, eight _children._

McGonagall had lost more children than she could forget.  "But maybe," she said quietly, "this war will be the last."

_Her _children.

  
~*~

Author's Note: This is my first HP fic, I'd really appreciate anything you can say about it.  Constructive criticism is lovely beyond words, but I also appreciate a good "wow you kick ass and stuff" occasionally.  Thanks for reading.


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